Shifting Equilibrium
by merduff
Summary: House kept the balcony off-limits until he got his balance back. Spoilers for season five.


In the four months that Wilson was gone, House didn't step onto the balcony that connected their offices. If he needed fresh air, he escaped to the roof where he only had to deal with Stacy's fading ghost. The balcony had never been about getting fresh air. What he found there had died with Amber.

It was hard enough having to look across to an empty office and the constant reminder that solving the puzzle wasn't enough and never would be. He tried closing the blinds, but that felt too much like admitting defeat. But standing alone, holding a handful of pebbles that no one would hear patter against glass, was just pathetic.

He'd caught Kutner out there once, sitting on the dividing wall as he enjoyed his morning coffee, and had to stop himself from swinging his cane to knock the mug out of Kutner's hand or worse. He'd settled instead on assigning all the scut work to him for the rest of the week, until even Kutner got the message and the balcony door remained closed.

After Wilson returned, he still couldn't bring himself to open the door and take that step outside. "Nothing's changed," Wilson had said, but House didn't believe him. Nothing had changed, but everything was different. House played pranks and Wilson played mind games; House ranted and Wilson lectured. They drifted in and out of each other's offices looking for consults and advice and gossip, but something had shifted, an unseen movement of tectonic plates that left House stumbling over uneven ground.

The rituals and rules were still there to guide him. When he barged into Wilson's office, he was on Wilson's territory, and all the ranting and raving in the world couldn't shift that sedate, smug countenance. Likewise, when Wilson stalked into his office and tried to browbeat House into conforming to his standards of behaviour, House was free to tune out the sound of his voice. But the balcony was neutral ground. Wilson might lecture and House might rant, but at least they started on equal footing.

House was afraid he'd lost that footing sometime between scotch number seven and eight, and he didn't know how to get it back.

He glanced out the window, across the balcony to Wilson's office, finding some reassurance in the familiar furniture back in its rightful place. Wilson wasn't at his desk, but a moment later he opened the door to House's office.

"I was thinking about trying the new steakhouse on Village Boulevard tonight," he said, propping the door open. Apparently it was only a drive-by conversation. "Feel like a filet?" Wilson grinned like a Village Boulevard idiot at the alliteration, and a wave of affection and relief washed over House, even as he wondered how such a moron had become so essential to his life.

"Only if you're buying." House knew he had to re-establish at least some of the basic parameters of their relationship before the ground could smooth out between them. The most important one had always been that that Wilson was the provider and House the consumer.

And yet four months apart had made House tentative. He'd tested the waters with a stolen bite of apple — Wilson really shouldn't have drawn that much attention to it if he'd wanted it for himself — but he hadn't cadged an entire meal off Wilson since his return.

The dopey grin didn't fade. "I wouldn't expect anything else. I'll make a reservation. Seven o'clock all right?"

It was late for House, as he didn't have a current case, but he knew Wilson was still catching up on paperwork. He could easily fill a couple of hours wreaking havoc on the Internet. "Fine," he said. "Let me know when you're ready to go." He didn't smile at the inadvertent rhyme.

Wilson nodded and stepped back, letting the door close. He hesitated a moment, looking as unbalanced as House felt, and then retreated down the hallway towards his office. House looked out the window, waiting until Wilson settled behind his desk, before he opened a browser in search of distraction.

Every once in a while he glanced across the balcony. Wilson appeared hard at work, though occasionally House caught him staring into space. He wondered what — or whom — Wilson was seeing. He'd looked for a picture of Amber on Wilson's desk, but Wilson had always kept the things that were most important to him private.

Even without a case to distract him, House easily lost track of time. It was well past six when he was startled by a sharp tap on the glass behind his head, and then another. He craned his head around, just as a third pebble hit the door.

Wilson was standing next to the dividing wall, his overcoat slung over his arm. When he saw House watching, he opened his hand and let the rest of the pebbles fall to the ground. He smiled tentatively, as if he were unsure of House's reaction, and then turned away and leaned on the parapet.

House wasn't sure he was ready to test his footing, but Wilson had taken the first step and he could either match that step or beat a retreat.

He opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of scotch that Cuddy pretended wasn't there. It had been untouched since the night of the accident. The first time he saw it after returning to work, he'd been tempted to pour it down the sink, but that would have been another admission of defeat. Later, he'd kept it as a statement of faith that Wilson would return. He'd told himself, however, that he wouldn't open it again until he could share a drink with Wilson unburdened by sorrow or guilt. He'd come to realize that might not be possible, that it might not even matter. Guilt and sorrow were a part of what they were.

The thing about equilibrium was that it was constantly shifting. Sometimes keeping things balanced took a little adjustment. House found two glasses. Offering a drink in exchange for a meal was a start.

House slid open the door and took a step.


End file.
